24 days of Christmas Our Own Ghosts
by Spy'd R
Summary: Scenes from a special, private Advent of John and Sherlock... That's it. :D
1. December 1st

**This is my promised "Sherlock Advent Calendar", also titled "24 days of Christmas" or "Our Own Ghosts"!**

**It's my way to say "thank you" and wish you all a happy season!  
Please keep on reading my stories, and find many many parcles under your tree, while Sherlock and John find love...**

**Yours sincerely Spy'dR!**

* * *

**Dec 1st 2010,**

The door opened and a chuffed John Watson with reddened cheeks came in, humming merry tunes to himself; probably Christmas Carols.

"Hello, Sherlock! I'm back! I hope you haven't destroyed anything while I was away." he scanned the room carefully.

"No. Seems everything's fine…"

"Have you got the shopping?" murmured the mortally bored heap of Sherlock, who was spread across both armchairs. However he had managed to do it.

"Yeah, I've got the everything except the peanut butter; Out of stock."

"Oh. That's inconvenient. You should've tried other shops. Anyway, how was your date going?"

It took John a while to answer. He had his reasons, but he also knew that lying to Sherlock was useless. Nevertheless he did.

"It was fine. Really. Absolutely great."

"She must be appalling, judging by the shade of crimson you're blushing right now. You can…"

"Why are you so keen on the bloody peanut butter?"

John had made it a habit to interrupt, and say the first thing that came to his mind, every time he wanted to avoid a certain topic.

"It would've been an experiment. But it won't work without the peanut butter. Have you at least got the cinnamon?"

"Yes, I've got the bloody cinnamon."

Suddenly, John was putting two and two together. He had also had to buy milk, butter, baking soda, Bourbon Vanilla and powder sugar.

"Wait a minute…were you actually intending to do something normal like baking, with these things?"

Sherlock sat upright now.

"Oh come on, John! You know me. Baking is for narrow-minded Christmas-lovers!"

John nodded in disbelief, and added sarcastically, "And you hate Christmas. Right." before he disappeared into his bedroom. He was right though. Sherlock actually liked Christmas and enjoyed it; another very untypical side of the so often very strange detective.

After John had locked the door behind him, and turned on "White Christmas" by Bing Crosby, he realised that both of them had their secrets, and it was about time to tell Sherlock his. And of course the perfect date for this stunning surprise would be Christmas eve.


	2. December 2nd

**Dec 2nd 2010**

When John came down to the living room the next morning, Sherlock was just having his breakfast, (meaning he mostly ignored it), while reading the newspaper.

"Morning John."

"Morning Sherlock.", John prepared his own meal.

"Listen…I'm sorry about yesterday. In fact, I'm quite…positively surprised that…"

"…that a man who doesn't eat on a regular basis actually likes to bake? It's alright, John. As always; I had my reasons."

"I'm sure you did."

"But as it happens, you get to prove how sorry you really are."

"What?!"

"I've been invited to the country for a few days, and you are coming with me."

"What? Did Henry Knight invite you? Or is it a case?"

"Neither. I wish it would be, though."

"So who is it?"

"My brother."

John wore a quite silly expression now.

"Mycroft? Why would he invite you?"

"It's a promise we gave to our parents, well, our mother. Every year around Christmas, we meet at Holmes Hall for a few days. This year it's going to be from December 13th to December 17th."

"Holmes _Hall_?"

While John's eyes were struggling to stay in their sockets, Sherlock seemed to become even more displeased.

"You can Google it, if you like. I'm sure you'll find some nice pictures.

"Don't you have at least one picture? Nothing that reminds you of your youth?"

"Sentiment!", he slammed the newspaper dramatically on the table. "I don't need all these useless memories of a childhood that makes hell look like a nice place!"

John was dumbstruck. Could this be real? An emotional outburst from Sherlock Holmes, that didn't root in boredom?

"Oh. God. I'm…I'm so sorry. Really!"

"Don't be. It's gone anyway. The past belongs to the past and the present-tense is now.

A gloomy silence ruled the scene for a few moments, until Sherlock's mobile phone announced an e-mail. A broad smile appeared on Sherlock's lips; wiping all the bad feelings away within the second.

"John, we've got a case!"


	3. December 3rd

**Dec 3rd**

„Just so I can get it finally right: the client will come at 16:30…"

„16:48, because oft he train, and because he's out of town. But go on!"

John needed a moment to silently admire his flatmate once again, before he continued.

"Right and then he's coming up to give us details on...?"

To be frank, John had no idea what was going on. The only thing he knew was, it couldn't be murder, or they would have started off the day before.

"A violin. He is the owner of one of the most valuable and also one of the last of its sort. His name is Robert Ayrdale and his Stradivari has _magically_ disappeared the day before yesterday."

When using the word _magically_, Sherlock had waved his hands dramatically.

"I bet he didn't write anything of that in the e-mail..."

"He's an idiot."

"Well, that's news..."  
"He wrote about the violin and that he would have to travlel a long distance with the train. Even you could've figured it out."

An excited grin lit up Sherlock's face. Then he jumped up from the armchair and adjusted his jacket, while John didn't move at all. Suddenly the doorbell rang. One single ring. The door opened timidly.

The man who came in looked friendly, was in his early sixties and slightly overweighed. His full, white hair was neatly combed back and his brown eyes looked very warm.

"Good afternoon, gents.", he began with a strong Scottish accent.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Ayrdale."

John simply nodded.

"Heavens! How do you know my name?"

"It's a simple thing to find out a name, when dealing with a stolen Stradivari, Mr. Ayrdale."

"Oh, Mr. Holmes! You seem to be as amazing as everyone says!"

"Why don't you sit down, Mr. Ayrdale?", John stood up to shake the old man's hand. "Good evening, I'm John Watson."

"He's my friend and colleague. Everything you tell me, you can also tell him."

Mr. Ayrdale looked a bit unsure, but finally dealt with the fact and sat down.

"So, please Mr. Ayrdale... tell me the details of your most puzzling theft."

"So, when I came home from a concert two days ago. It was in the middle of the night, but I wanted to have a quick look at my treasure, you see? So I went to her vault, but she was gone!"

Sherlock and John shared amused glances, as the old man started to refer to his musical instrument as "she".

"Then I looked around, and searched, but I didn't find any evidence of a robbery or of anyone else! It's a tragedy, Mr. Holmes! It's horrible! She is my only one!"

Sherlock didn't bat an eyelash, even though Mr. Ayrdale went to his need before him.

"No it's not, Mr. Ayrdale. The only mystery is why you consult me at all. If you would've wanted to betray your insurance company for money, you shouldn't have come, because now, it won't stay a secret.

"What are you talking about?!", the client rose from his seat in pretended anger, but again, he couldn't convince Sherlock Holmes.

"I can see the white powder on your hands, fingers and clothes, that means you've been playing it even before getting on the train; at least yesterday, and you say "She's the only one". I can read from your clothes, that you are currently in a lack of money, but you didn't have the heart to sell your beloved 2000000 £ worth violin. So Mr. Ayrdale, I can give you one advice: if you need money, get a job. Now leave."

An appalled Scotsman stormed out of 221b Bakerstreet, swearing and cursing loudly. He didn't yet know, that his ensurance company would soon be suing him for deception.

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Scrooge." Sherlock muttered, looking out of the window, watching a furious Mr. Ayrdale catch a cab. Suddenly the room was filled with the loud laughter of two friends.


	4. December 4th

**Dec 4th**

"God, it's so boring! Why am I surrounded by idiots! No case since YESTERDAY!

...at least no proper one!"

It was about 7:45 am in London, but the two flatmates from 221b Bakerstreet were already up. (John mainly, because Sherlock had started to play the violin two hours earlier.) Now he was just returning with bags of food for breakfast.

"I'm also glad to see you, Sherlock…" he put the bag on the table. "You know what I always tell you: go and find a hobby or something."

"Oh…habbies! How dull…"

Sherlock stood up, walked over and now stood tall in front of John. He only wore his bath robe and some underwear. A shiver ran down John's spine. When he looked deeply into Sherlock's grey eyes, he had an idea.

"How…how about ice-skating? I haven't been doint it for ages and would need some exercise anyway…so…"

Suddenly Sherlock blushed and turned away. He muttered something about ice-skating being useless, and John truly needing exercise.

"What? What are you saying?"

More muttering.

"What's the matter? That's not like you at all. I just wanted to help you."

"Clearly."

"Want to tell me why ice-skating is so tedious? Just so I know."

"I can't!" Sherlock shouted. He really didn't mean to be rude this time, but he was deeply ashamed. Nobody had ever bothered to teach him ice-skating or skiing or anything like this.

"I mean…I…I was never taught to. I'm sorry. John."

Now John was baffled. Well, on the one hand. On the other hand he knew that he shouldn't be. The fact that truly surprised him though, was that he hadn't learned, and that he actually minded. John made a mental note, that the topic "childhood" was a blank nerve in the Holmes' nervous system.

"No, no. It's alright…I suppose. Look, there's nothing to be ashamed about. It's only that I realise, how difficult your childhood was." there was a pause. John was finally ready to step on a new territory in their friendship; not caring to move beyond anymore. He also knew, that this territory's ground was as thin as a freshly frozen lake.

"Well um… I could teach you, if you want…"

An expression of surprise appeared on Sherlock's face.

"You…" he cleared his throat. "That would be…"

"Fun?"

John watched Sherlock struggle for a while, until he asked. "Shall I help you with those? I know it's difficult to put them on. I had always trouble myself, when I was young."

Sherlock hid his face in his hands.

"Yeah, but you're an idiot. I knew it was a bad idea after all!"

"And you've never done this before. Come on! Don't give up, but give it a try! And now let me help you into your shoes…"

It was 3:35 pm by now, and the daylight began to fade. All the beautiful fairy light were turned on already, and spread a wonderful, romantic, Christmassy feeling that yearned for a glass of hot wine punch. While John's cheeks reddened in the cold, Sherlock became even paler.

The doctor helped the detective onto the ice.

"If you feel unsure, just cling to the wall. Watch me first, and then try it yourself. I'll be there to make sure, you don't slip. It might be quite dangerous, ok? Always keep your gloves on, that's important too, for various reasons. And…yeah…that's about it.", he wanted to start off, when he turned round once more. "Oh! And, Sherlock, the most important thing here is- and it might spare you some unnecessary injuries- don't show off. Don't even try to. Understood?"

Sherlock tilted his head like a bird, but then nodded. It was impossible to even imagine what he was thinking right now. Now John gave him a grin and went along the track. His first steps also were very clumsy, but with every further movement he made, he fell back into his old rhythm.

"See? What do you think?"

"Well, it actually looks fun…", he admitted.

"Now it's your turn!"

Sherlock hade made some steps already, and with his excellent balance, it was no wonder, that he was a natural talent. The beginning however was rather funny to watch. Soon Sherlock wanted away from the safe wall and go round in circles like everyone else, together with John. The one who helped him; the one who was there and treated him like had only seldom been treated.

"John. Take my hand."

"Oh, ok. I'll help you!"

"I don't need any help.", he murmured, before he set off towards the middle of the rink. John almost lost slipped, but managed to hold his balance.

"What are you doing?"

"It's an experiment! But I need to hold your hand…otherwise I'll fall!"

"If you hold my hand and go this fast, I'll fall! Jesus Christ, you're bloody talented!"

Sherlock said nothing; neither of them did for hours now. Sometimes hand in hand, sometimes on their own, they went along the rink. It was 6:28 pm, when John ran out of breath.

"Sherlock, we can return tomorrow, if you want, but I just can't go on any longer…please, let's go and get a hot drink. Have you ever tried hot spiced wine?"

"No.", Sherlock himself sounded pretty tired. "Is it good?"

"If you've just spent hours ice-skating like you've never done before, it's the best thing, that can possibly happen to you."

"Oh, good. I have to have one now."

"Good! Let's go!"

When they stood there, a mug in their hands, Sherlock became unsure.

"uhm…John?"

"Hmmm?"

"Thank you. For…for everything. And for the hot punch."

"Oh. Never mind. That's what friends are there for, you just never knew."


	5. December 5th

Dec 5th

Sherlock had left early, and had already returned by the time John woke up. Actually, John was woken by an alarmingly burnt odour.

"What's going on? Sherlock? What the hell are you doing?" there was a wall of smoke coming from the kitchen, making it impossible to see anything.

"I am fine!"

"I'm glad you're fine, but what is this supposed to be anyway?"

"Oh it's obvious, isn't it?! My experiment failed. I do remind you, that we already had this conversation."

John didn't remember. He had had so many conversations about these ridiculous experiments already.

"I still don't get it..."

"I'm baking, John!"

"You...are baking. I should've thought so."

"Yes. You heard me."

"Well, let's open the windows before we do anything."

Five minutes later the smoke was gone, but the burnt smell still was there. John now closed the windows because of the cold.

"Baking's just like ice skating, Sherlock. You have to start slowly and step by step. Besides, together it's much more fun! Do you want me to...well...be your assistant?"

Sherlock had to think about it. It should have been a surprise for John, because he knew how much his friend liked those peanut-butter-cookies, and cinnamon. On the other side, he absolutely failed when it came down to cooking. And possibly he would be able to spend some nice hours together with John. So, he concluded, it might be reasonable to agree.

"You know, I always need one.", Sherlock grinned shortly.

"Fine. So where's your recipe?"

"I didn't have one. Why would I need a recipe?", to be frank, Sherlock didn't even know what one needed a recipe for, when producing something simple as cookies. Well, not that simple after all.

"Typically you... even the most educated professionals need recipes, Sherlock! Especially when you don't know anything about it. So let's find some recipe."

Sherlock moved to the living room and opened his laptop. He didn't have to look long for the right recipe, which was as follows:

_Original recipe makes 4 dozen_Change Servings

1 cup unsalted butter

1 cup crunchy peanut butter

1 cup white sugar

1 cup packed brown sugar

2 eggs

2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda

**Directions**

**1. **Cream together butter, peanut butter and sugars. Beat in eggs.**2. **In a separate bowl, sift together flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Stir into batter. Put batter in refrigerator for 1 hour.**3. **Roll into 1 inch balls and put on baking sheets. Flatten each ball with a fork, making a criss-cross pattern. Bake in a preheated 375 degrees F oven for about 10 minutes or until cookies begin to brown. Do not over-bake.

(source: /recipe/classic-peanut-butter-cookies/)

Sherlock understood. He needed this, because it all came down to a chain of chemical reactions, and people needed something to hold on to, because they were stupid and had no idea what was going on. Well, but were they really that stupid? Some, so he had heard, knew a big number of recopies by heart. Quite good for such a simple mind...

"We don't need any cinnamon for these. But I'm sure, we can use it another time..."

"Oh. That's a pitty."

"Why."

"Never mind."

"ok...so you can start to weigh the indigents now. Let's dig out the..."

But Sherlock had started to weigh the flour by eye. John knew then, that he could absolutely rely on this stunning ability of his flatmate.

"You're doing very well.", John remarked, when it was time to put all the things together. Sherlock didn't respond.

"Now look. You have to work the dough like this.", John stood close to Sherlock, but still next to him.

"Come here, and show me. Otherwise I won't see it properly.", just a poor excuse. Sherlock pulled John in front of him, so that the smaller man's back was leaned against the taller one's chest.

"Sherlock...? What-what are you doing?"

"Watching you teaching me how to bake..."

Together they worked their hands through the dough, but neither of them dared to go any further, even if the air between them was buzzing with electricity. Once the dough was ready, John put it in the fridge. The waiting hour was spent in unsure silence. Had Sherlock gone too far? Or was it just John, who didn't know what to do? Or maybe both?

The hour was over, and the raw cookies went straight into the oven. When they were ready to be taken out, Sherlock had prepared tea, and a fire in the fireside.

"Do you know, why I actually started baking?", Sherlock broke the silence.

"No. Why?"

"Because I knew you loved peanut-butter-cookies..."

"...and cinnamon."


	6. December 6th

Dec 6th

It was 6:15 in the morning. Everything was quiet in 221b Bakerstreet, even if the traffic was already raging outside; no wonder on such a busy street. Yet, in Sherlock's mind there was no silence. Never. He thought about the last two days. John had started to behave strangely; just like if he would return Sherlock's feeling of affection. He was ready to go as far as to say, that he was becoming the friend, or maybe even the brother he's always wished for. Of course, Mycroft had tried, but there was also always this kind of concurrence the younger Holmes just never could bear. But John- of course he lost his nerves sometimes- was patient when Sherlock needed him to be, and didn't laugh at him, when he showed another lack, in what seemed to be common knowledge. So what kind of treat would people like John enjoy? How could he show John, how much these last two days meant to him? Of course!

At 3:00 pm, Sherlock left the flat. It was due date to catch a murderer. The man had made a big mistake, when he had touched the downside of the safe, after brutally killing five people. He must have dressed up as a woman, but alone the way of killing, proved otherwise. Anyway, there would be a lot of running involved...

John's mobile buzzed. Of course it had to be Sherlock. Nobody else ever texted. Probably, it would be a case again. Probably something else that was completely ominous.

_22 Northumberland Street. 8pm. Sharp._

John rolled his eyes and sighed. "I wonder how you'll put our lives at stake this time...?", he muttered to himself.

8:15 pm. It was dark and cold. John was getting impatient. What was it about coming on the dot? Well, this was Sherlock Holmes. He knew what he was doing. John watched the clouds of his breath dissolve into the icy air, when suddenly a wheezing Sherlock came running down the street.

"I am late...I...I know. Had to...track down...a killer."

"What? What am I doing here, if you've already got him? Wait a minute...have you run all the way...?"

"I can tell you, why you're here...You're here to alter the past, and hopefully correct something, that I now consider to me a big mistake." Sherlock straightened his back.

"But let's go in first. You must be freezing." He added.

When they entered Angelo's there wasn't a single person in the entire restaurant.

"Sherlock. What is going on here? Where are all the other...um...guests?"

"Don't be so narrow-minded. I arranged it."

"Why would you..oh. I see. You're going to tell my any second now..."

"John.", Sherlock took his hand and lead him to the one table where they first had talked about relationships. There, again, was a candle on the table. "Do you want to be my date this time?"


	7. December 7th

**I am so verry, verry, verry sorry and disconsolate. But I have to break my promise, and update December 8th also on Dec 9th. My heart is broken and I feel like a traitor, but I go on holiday over the weekend, and cannot take my laptop with me, because he's a fat old beast... ;)**

**So again, I have to say I'm sorry, but I PROMISE you'll get Chapter 8, just with one day delay! (Thank you for your understanding!)**

**Yours Spy'dR**

* * *

Dec 7th

There hadn't happened much the last night. Only bit of talking. John had agreed to officially be Sherlock's date though, and this development was worth everything. Overcoming ones pride and just let things be how they are. Neither of them could deny the fact that there was more. Somehow this whole new situation caused an uneasy feeling in him. His entire life and upbringing had been completely straight. Also the days in his military service had been more than heterosexual (when there were times to think about such things, and there were more than one could imagine). The only times he was confronted with homosexuality, was when he was with Harry. To be frank, there had been merely only two reasons, why they didn't get on: first because she was an alcoholic, and second, because John had never been able to understand how she could've fallen in love with another woman. It was just something he thought, he would never be able to grasp. Not until now. Not until he had met Sherlock. Not until he had taken off his pride. And in the end, he now realised, this was all it came down to, in the end; taking off your pride.


	8. December 8th

**Here's my promised, holiday-inspired, 8th chapter!**

* * *

Dec 8th

The sun ad set already, when Sherlock and John left the flat, had waited for a cab and gone in. Sherlock hadn't said a word about where they were going, and worse, what was going to happen now. Fine. They were now officially dating, but there were about a thousand questions to be asked. Were they supposed to tell anyone? If it were down to him, it would be kept a secret. Were they now a real couple? Would Sherlock want to cuddle up by the fireside with him? And...what about...well...sex? John was so unsure about it all, that he lost track of reality for a moment, until he felt someone poked his shoulder.

"Come on, John! We've arrived."

"What's going to happen now?"

Now even Sherlock was confused, and hesitated.

"What do you mean?"

"We had a date yesterday. That means, that there is some kind of affection for each other. So how are supposed to go on?"

"How do you want us to go on?"

John had to think for a moment. "Like normal, I suppose. I'd like us to go on like every other couple. Even though I can imagine, that dating you might make that impossible."

Sherlock tilted his head; then he took John's sleeve again and dashed on. A few yards further he too on the conversation again. "How do _normal _people go on, then?"  
He had absolutely no idea about romantic relationships.

"We go on dates. If the first date works out well, we date more often. And at some point we decide to start a romantic relationship, and maybe someday..."

John, once again, was dumbstruck. The beauty of what lay before him was not to put into any words. The air was freezing and clear. The night was dark. The river Thames slept in its cold, black bed, and yet, it flowed relentlessly along. Everything was beautifully lit. Christmas decoration was everywhere. The balustrade by the riverside was adorned with garlands and red bows. When John looked up to the endless darkness, he noticed, that it was beginning to snow.

"Is this, where you wanted to take me?"

Sherlock pulled John along, this time taking his hand so that everyone who looked close enough could see it.

"Almost. You should probably close your eyes now. Just to perfect the surprise. But I will blindfold you anyway."

Sherlock put a red scarf around John's head. The blind one was lead across some streets, hoping Sherlock wouldn't put him in the middle of the traffic, just for science's sake. He didn't. He led the soldier up a long way, taking many, many stairs. The journey was long and tedious, but eventually they made it. John noticed that he was somewhere up high, out in the freezing wind.

"Sherlock, where the hell are we?"

"Open your eyes and make your own deductions."

John removed the blindfold and couldn't believe what he saw. He was standing on the top of the Tower Bridge, overlooking the nightly London, watching the snowflakes fall.

"You should close your mouth now."

John turned around to Sherlock. He was grinning. His warm, true smile was almost more beautiful to John, than the rest of the city, because it was a rare thing to see. The nightly London however, he could have every day, if he wanted to.

"Oh god, this is amazing! How did you even...?! You know what, I don't care. Just come here!"

So they stood on top of the Tower Bridge; hugging, protecting each other from the icy wind; and letting the snow fall.


	9. December 9th

**AND: Today's 9th cahpter!**

* * *

Dec 9th

Sherlock was on a case. John was just about to return from the Christmas party of his old army-friends. It had been a torture. Everyone had seemed to be in the best humour, while he had just been standing around, avoiding any contact. The reason for his behaviour was not that he didn't like them, but it was all the flashbacks and traumatising memories. He hadn't even thought about drinking anything. Now here he was. Sober, sad and desperate. He hoped Sherlock would be at home, just that he could tell anyone, even if it was the most disinterested person in the world. But hence Sherlock was out, the flat was empty. Not even Mrs. Hudson was at home. Desperate he sunk into his armchair. Sleep followed immediately. Two or three hours passed, until he was brutally woken by the doorbell. After realising where he was, and what was going on, he sped down to the entrance. The door opened, and there was a drenched, freezing Sherlock, who had obviously been beaten up.

"Oh good lord! What have you done?"

"Complicated story. I apparently lost my key..." there his knees gave in. Sherlock literally fell into John's arms.

"You've got hypothermia! You need to get out of your clothes instantly!"

Sherlock hardly managed to make the way upstairs. In the living room, John helped him out of his clothes and under the hot shower. John of course had to be there, in case Sherlock would faint again. When he came out of the shower, John took a professional look at his wounds.

"You've got a tiny head-wound. How did you even do that? You really shouldn't be left wandering off on your own..."

"Honestly? Do you want to know the story?"

"Yeah, of course!"

"You should tell me about your hard day first, but if you insist...because I can't remember. There's a whole of estimated two hours in my memories. That means, I have absolutely no idea what has happened."

"Now lie down on the sofa and get some rest, I'll be there in a minute."

John went to the chimney, started a fire, went to the kitchen and heated some milk. He was bloody sure, Sherlock hadn't eaten anything again; so instead of tea, it would be some cocoa with cream and cinnamon today. He couldn't show him London from the top of the Tower Bridge, he couldn't probably even keep him safe, but he could fix him if something wasn't right. John had no idea how much this ability meant to Sherlock. He'd never had someone like this before. In former days, there might have been Mycroft, but this still was something different, with John.

The fire was cracking and Sherlock almost asleep in the leather-armchair(not on the sofa), when John returned to the living room.

"So, how's our invalid doing? Are you better, hon-?" John really didn't mean to call Sherlock honey, but the developments of the last few days just...yeah, right...what had they done? John put down the mugs on the side-board and came over to the armchair.

"Oh...I'm...I'm so, so sorry. I didn't mean to-"

Sherlock stood up. Sherlock now wore an utterly confused face. John would soon find out, that this confusion was just pretence.

"Sorry about what?"

"Well, about-"

"Oh do shut up, John!" he said, and made John kneel in front of him.

"Just kiss me."


	10. Deember 10th

Night from December 9th to December 10th 2010  
(2:30 am)

* * *

John had just fallen asleep for an hour, when he heard steps down in the living room. On the odd, Sherlock would do that. He would get up in the middle of the night to drink some tea, solve a case or sit in front of John's room, sometimes even watching him; but no matter what he did, he did it silently. Not this time. John listened for some minutes, already drifting back to sleep, when a tremendous crash came from downstairs. What the hell was going on? John rushed out of his bed and down to his mate.

"What are you..." he stopped. Sherlock seemed to have tripped over the coffee table and now lay on the floor. Slowly, as is he was in a trance, he got up again. His eyes were wide open, fixed on John.

"Sherlock? Sher- what are you doing? Wait, are you listening to me? No, no- Sherlock!"

The tall man made his way towards the stairs. John got to face Sherlock. It was now, that he realised, that Sherlock was sleepwalking. Some say, you mustn't wake them, some say you should. What could John do, that Sherlock wouldn't hurt himself again? He decided to look after him without waking him up. Sherlock just ignored John (as always) and walked straight past him, still towards the stairs. He almost stumbled over a step, but John caught his arm. Sherlock mumbled something in his sleep. It was a bit spooky to see his silver eyes; wide open, but with a gaze like a corpse. They reached John's room. The sleepwalker pushed down the handle; completely normal. But then he went straight to the bed, lay down and covered himself in John's blanket. He seemed to realise just now, that he wasn't there. His hands felt around for a second body, or something warm. John himself, who had watched all this in amusement, considered to go down to Sherlock's bed, and just make a change. But why should go down at all? They were a couple after all. John grinned once more and went to bed. He lifted Sherlock's arm and put it before him, but the moment John was also cuddled in, Sherlock laid his arm over his friend and pulled him close. Some seconds later, the grip tightened again; Sherlock had fallen asleep. Before closing his eyes himself, John wondered if Sherlock would remember how he would have gotten in this room.


	11. December 11th

**Sorry again. School kept me from writing... :'(  
****Anyways, I replased Dec 11th, because I didn't like it myself. I hope you like this better! It was really hard work!**

* * *

Dec 13th

* * *

The train to Yorkshire rattled calmly. John felt the weight of the sleeping Sherlock on his shoulder and shook his head, when reflecting the last two days, before he started to update his blog.

Dec 11th

When John got up, he was quite surprised, to see Sherlock listening to a client. On the table there was a small box, entirely covered in blue gems and a tatty, old jacket. Well, when saying, Sherlock was listening, that wasn't entirely true. Both of them were silent; Sherlock was staring at the jacket and the client was staring at Sherlock. John regarded the man from the staircase, in order not to disturb his friend at work. The client was slightly overweighed, in his mid-thirties or forties and his brick-coloured hair were neatly styled. Sherlock would probably say that he made an effort to look neat, clean and attractive. After a while, watching Sherlock, the man got nervous. "What do you make of this Mr. Holmes?"  
Sherlock didn't bat a lash, when he gave the answer, "It's a good case, thank you, Peter. Tomorrow I'll be able to tell you what happened to you. Goodbye."  
With that, the man shook his head and went out, greeting John.

"You can come in now, John."

"What was that now?"

"Not what, but who."

"Who then?"

"Mr. Henry Ryder, a colossal idiot who I went to secondary school with."

"I see. So he brought you...this.", John took the jacket and examined it.

"What do you make of this?"

"Not again."

"John."

"Well, alright. Hmmm...it looks quite tatty and worn, so the owner must have had it a while. A very poor man. Probably a beggar even. And...yeah. That's it."

"As usual. You see everything, but the important facts. You really need to work on it..."

John grumbled, but Sherlock ignored him. "The owner, with the initials H.B., had a lot of money, but lost it only recently, probably one and a half year ago, after the last stock-crash. He's a teacher, right-handed and usually combs his hair back with loads of gel. He or a close relative of his owns a distillery. I also believe that we will get to know him soon, for this jacket is of very great value to him. But not today. I think we even have to draw his attention on us so he can have his jacket back."

Again John was caught between the outmost astonishment and the fact that he should know Sherlock's methods, as he pointed out more often than necessary.

"How did you see that?"

"Oh come on! It's easy! Look, at the brand. This tailor only produces customized suits and has one store, which is situated in Savile Row."

"Sorry to interrupt, but didn't you say he's a teacher? How can a teacher possibly afford something like this? That doesn't make any sense to me."

"And that's the point. It doesn't make any sense. Not yet. Now, I know that he's lost his money, because of the very thing you said. It looks quite worn, but the cloth seems to be newer than its looks, and it hasn't often been cleaned. Just twice. And it has to be his only one, because he wears it more than necessary. That he's a teacher, I gather from the white, powdery stains on the back and sleeves, and that he loves gel in his hair, you can see, when looking at the collar. Here."

He handed the jacket to John, and pointed at the collar. A rather gross looking film of an oily, sticky, b substance with a sweet smell was spread on top of it. John now also understood why Sherlock knew, that the owner must have something to do with alcohol. When he had taken a smell at the white stain of gel, he had also instantly noticed a faint odour of something alcoholic.

"How do you know he's not a drinker? It's quite a strong smell..."

"He can't be, because the smell is all over. He must have drenched it in whiskey, and hung it out to dry, because most of the smell has gone, but that's rather unlikely, because most alcoholics don't care about their looks. He does. I'd rather say, that he's spent a long time in a distillery, so that his clothes have adopted the smell."

"And the rest? How do you know he'll find us?"

"Oh that's easy, I'm going to tell him where to find us. If the GPS-chip neatly hidden in the pocket, would work, and if he'd have the money to have it repaired, he'd clearly find us. I think I don't have to explain why he values it, do I? I have Lestrade looking for him."

"Wow. I'm stunned."

Sherlock tilted his head. He never knew how to deal with admiration. Eventually he grinned and uttered sheepishly.

"Umm...thank. You."

John returned the smile, and sat down next to him.

"So, what are you going to go today?"

"I think breakfast would be a good idea."

"Seriously? You want to have breakfast?"

"You've just found a case. You always say, that you don't eat while working. I still don't get why, by the way."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Digesting slows my brain down. Why do I always have to repeat myself...? Anyway. Afterwards, we have to go to St. Bart's, and in the evening, I'll visit a concert. If you want...umm...you could join me..?"

"I've got nothing else to do today, so...yes. I'd like to come. What kind of concert will that be?"

"Tchaikovsky and Bach, a classical violin concert."

"Sounds nice. Fine. But now, I'm starving, let's have breakfast."


	12. December 12th

**Do you recognise the original stories I used?**

**(copyright: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)**

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Dec 12th

John had Sherlock seldom seen so happy, as at the violin concert. It was strange for him, to discover such an emotional side on his friend. Yet it was something that he hoped one day to be the cause for. It was however, a great pleasure for John to see his...well, his boyfriend, so happy.

Sherlock had woken John at 7:00 am, sharp. He had told him to get dressed and to hurry up. Of course John did so. They took a taxi to Bond Street and made their way to Savile Row, to find the tailor of the jacket.

"Good morning, Mr. Breckonridge!"

The small man looked up from his work, and examined Sherlock and the other man closely. He needed some time, before he could recall this unique face.

"Mr. Holmes? You are Mycroft's brother, the detective! Good to see you! How can I help you? Oh! I see you brought a friend? Hmm, I think we can fix that!"

John had to hold back a burst of laughter. This man was just brilliant.

"No, Mr. Breckonridge. I'm afraid, we come with a different concern. I need to know who bought this jacket." The detective gave it to the elderly man.

"Oh, oh, yes. I can remember him. But I don't know his name, I'm sorry. Or, at least, I don't know who it belongs to. The young lady came in and handed me the measurements on a piece of paper. She also told me to put some initials on it, I can remember the name by no stretch of imagination."

"A woman. Interesting."

"Don't you have some kind of billing register, or anything?" John chipped in.

"Certainly, I do."

"Could you please look her up? It must have been one and a half year ago."

"For Mycroft's littler brother, I'd do anything." The man smiled and went to the back of the shop.

"Do you remember every of your customers that exactly?" it was again John who asked this.

"Do you know where you are, young man? How many customers do you think I have ever day..."

"Yeah. Sorry."

"Here she is. Her name's Catherin Baker. You need her address, I suppose..."

When leaving the shop, Sherlock grinned contentedly.

"What? Why are you so happy?" John asked.

"Because, you didn't deny to be my friend, for the first time. Now we have to find this Catherin Baker. She has to be his wife. Sisters don't make such expensive presents. That also shows, that he still loves her. She's left him. A broken heart, then."

It was 8:30 am when they reached the flat of Mrs. Baker. Sherlock pressed the buzzer. When she answered, he pretended to be an old friend of her husband. John thought it was a bit risky, because neither of them knew the surname of this ominous Mr. Baker. She let them in. In the flat, Sherlock told her to have found the jacket in his apartment, after her husband had paid him a visit. Every word a lie, of course, but eventually it worked. She told them, that it was no longer anything of her concern, because they had parted one year ago, and that the jacket had been her last attempt to get him back, before he entirely vanished in some dark business. She claimed, that "it was all, because of this strange, blue box Henry had brought home one evening."  
Ah. That was everything, Sherlock needed to know. Suddenly he dropped his mask and stormed out of the building.

Back at 221b Bakerstreet, the detective immediately attended the box and the microscope. The doctor turned on the television when Sherlock told him, they might have to wait some time, but fell asleep on the sofa five minutes later.

Now it was about 2:00 pm. "Nothing has happened. Sherlock, I'm tired of waiting. I need some air."

"I would stay if I were you. You might miss the fun part."

"Have you ever worked out the idea, that we have two completely different pictures of what fun is? I don't think so."

Sherlock just raised his brows and turned away, poking the fire. Slightly annoyed, John got his jacket.

"I don't believe that Lestrade has found thousands of people who could fit your description."

"If you would decrease the time you spend sleeping, you'd now, that I made some important progress today."

"Decrease my sleeping time? Do you realise, I hardly ever manage to sleep six hours through? I'm sure you know, that six hours is the minimum a person at my age needs..."

"Clearly."

"Well. I'm out. Don't wait for me." When John was out the door, Sherlock turned his head, and stared at the door. He was a bit worried; it was never good, when John said things like these. Three seconds later, all the worries were gone, because he returned, together with DI Lestrade, and a skinny man, who was even taller than Sherlock Holmes himself. John gave Sherlock an apologetic glance, and returned his jacket to the coat hook.

"Is this the person you were looking for?", there were no kinds of formalities between Greg and Sherlock.

"Yes. Now go out, and wait outside, until I tell you return. I need to talk to him on my own."

"But if you're right, and he is who you say, you better shouldn't be alone with this guy. Maybe you get ideas..."

Sherlock looked at Greg as if he was to kill him.

"Alright, alright. If you do get ideas: I warned you.", and with this words, the DI left.

"Please, do sit down, Mr. Henry Baker."

The stranger smiled silently, and took seat in the armchair.

"Very good. Now I think, John, you need some kind of explanation, don't you? While you were so busy sleeping, I wasn't idle. I've analysed the inside of the blue box, and found out that out Mr. Baker here, isn't a teacher after all. No; he is a producer and dealer of cocaine. This also explains the white stains on the sleeves of this." He pointed to the jacket. The eyes of Baker widened.

"How did you find that?"

"A man I know found it two days ago, when you fled from the police and from your angry customers."

The man seemed to see no way out and began to talk.

"It's true Mr. Holmes. I don't have any money, so I have to save some, to make a living. Two years ago, a man appeared and offered to help me. He said, that I didn't have to pay anything back, just that I had to fulfil certain tasks. He also threatened to kill me, if I even mentioned his name, so I won't do that by any means, but, I have nothing to lose, you see? One of these tasks however, was to sell this stuff. I don't know what it is, and what it does; never was drawn to drugs; but I did it. Some folks thought, my price was way too high, and were about to beat me up and steal it, when a policeman appeared round the corner. Of course I ran for my life. One of these addicts must have dropped my jacket, for they had stripped it off me."

"And in the jacket, there was the box."

"Exactly, Mr. Holmes."

"Do you own a distillery?" both of the other men looked bewildered at John. After a moment, Baker answered, "More or less. My cousin, up in Scotland. I've been there two weeks ago."

"Thank you. That was very important. Go on." John said in a very strange way, that was somewhere between heroically and embarrassing. The attention was immediately drawn back to the stranger, who suddenly began to cry.

"Please, Mr. Holmes! Please! Don't send me to prison! I need to come free! I've found a way to get my wife back! And if I'm committed to prison, I'll lose her forever! Please!" and if the scenery wasn't bizarre enough, he went to his knees.

"I need to get free! Listen to me! I'll flee from the country! I swear to God!"

Sherlock stood up. "Enough! You think I'll let you go, just because you fall at your knees and swear to some God! Stupid!" nobody had Sherlock ever seen like this; probably not even himself.

"You take your wife and leave the country. That'll be inevitable. Now go. I'll see that the police won't arrest you. You have two days to flee."

"Thank you so much Mr. Holmes, I-"

"Leave!"

The frightened man stormed out of the flat and Sherlock took his mobile. He called Lestrade and told him, that he'd caught the wrong man and that this one had to be left alone. The DI didn't like to hear that, but he eventually gave in and went away. Half an hour had to pass, until John first said something.

"You know who is his benefactor, don't you?"

"Yes. I also know, that he won't survive. Nobody's clever enough."

"It's this Moriarty..."

Sherlock just nodded.

"Why did you let him go? That was not like you at all..."

"It's almost Christmas after all."


	13. December 13th

Dec 13th, 6:30 am

Strangely John had had a peaceful night, without any ghosts of war to haunt him. So it is easy to understand, that he was many things, but not pleased, when the alarm clock rang. Silently he cursed himself, for not having packed the day before. Their train would leave at 9:00 from Victoria Station, and he still had to prepare his entire luggage.

It didn't happen often, but sometimes, a case just wouldn't let Sherlock go. Then he would think about every possibility and every tiny fact until he had ruled out all impossibilities. In these times, he didn't do anything; neither sleep, nor eat, nor move away from where he was. Sometimes his brain would interrupt its work and call for a bottle of water and a cigarette, but his body wouldn't move an inch. This time had spent the whole night on the sofa. Something just felt wrong. In his mind, he understood that everything was right, but his instinct wouldn't stop to cry "wrong". "Stop it! The train is about to leave in two hours, thirty-two minutes! I need to go and pack!", he told himself. It was, when he stood up, that he noticed how tired he was. He heard steps from the staircase.

"Good morning John! Are you ready?"

"Give me fifteen minutes! Are we going to have breakfast on the-" he paused. ""have you been up all night?"

"Problem?"

"Not for me, as long as you make it to the train in time. For your health and your beloved brainwork, it might be a problem."

"And, yes, you can have breakfast on the train. We'll hardly have the time now." Sherlock yawned and John grinned.

"You should put on something different."

"you're right." As Sherlock went past John he placed a casual kiss on his forehead. Another grin.

The time had come for the train to depart. Of course Sherlock had fallen asleep almost immediately after the departure, which was a good thing. He needed the sleep, and John needed to refresh his blog. He opened his laptop and put in his headphones, in order not to disturb his sleeping friend. Before he started to write, he thought about everything that happened these last two days. It now struck him as so peculiar, that he could just shake his head. After brooding a while over what the title should be, he chose "The Blue Chest", for this had attracted his most attention in the entire case. Words were written, and memories were dug out. It took John about two hours to complete the case-entry. He hoped for a new personal record on his hit-counter (and not another bug in the system). Meanwhile, Sherlock wriggled in his well-deserved sleep, now besieging the entire bench, so that John had to move to the opposite one. He was glad Mycroft had reserved a whole compartment for the two of them. When he finished his blog, he dug out his mobile and started listening to music. Suddenly he felt his lids becoming heavier.

Sherlock stretched and knocked his head against the wall of the train. It took him a while to realise where he was. He looked on his watch. Even if he had slept for only three hours, he felt happy and chuffed. On the opposite bench, there was John; asleep, with the head, leant against the window. Sherlock liked the expression on his face. Somehow, he couldn't look away from him. His observant eyes took in every detail of this man; every part of him.

John awoke to the smell of coffee and someone staring intensely at him.

"Sherlock? Are you staring at me?"

"So?"

"Would you please stop that...it makes me kind of nervous."

"But I like looking at you. There's so much to see. More than an entire art gallery."

John had no answer.

"I ordered some food for you. Your breakfast will arrive any minute now."

"Thank you, Sherlock."

"Do you realise, that you use my name in every second sentence you say to me?"

"Yes, I do. Because I like it."

"What?"

"Your name of course. I think it sound beautiful. It sounds just like you."

When John had said this, Sherlock came over to him and whispered something in his ear. It might have been "I love you", or just a "thank you", which is almost the same in Sherlock Holmes's world; anyway, that followed was a long, passionate kiss.


	14. December 14th

Dec 14th

It was strange; the house, and basically everything. Of course, the two Holmes brothers were used to it, but John had never seen anything like it. The mansion itself was built entirely of stone, the approach was about two miles long, and it was surrounded by a ridiculously huge garden. Back in the train, Sherlock had explained the whole process to him. On the evening of their arrival, there wasn't much time, and since everyone already expected John to be tired, he went straight to his room (where he, naturally, was lead to by the butler) after a good glass of Scotch. For the evening of December 15th, a great Christmas-like dinner was planned. The rest of the time was their own.

What John had missed, was the conversation between Mycroft and his younger brother, after he had gone to bed.

"So I was right after all." Mycroft's voice was calm, but teasing.

"Right about what?"

"That you would give in to John."

"I didn't."

"You seem to forget who you are talking to."

"No. You didn't understand. It was me who started it. But if I may remind you, you're the last person to complain about this sort of thing. How did Mother take it, by the way?"

"Better than you might think. She only shouted abuse at me." Both men chuckled at this remark.

"And how is he? I didn't happen to talk to him properly for ages."

"Oh, he's fine. But I'm astonished you didn't-"

"Of course I know he's here, Mycroft! You don't really think that I haven't noticed this meretricious after-shave all over the place."

"I thought you were getting slow."

"Good night Mycroft."

"Wait a minute." Sherlock stopped by the door, but didn't bother to turn around. "Why aren't you sleeping in the same room?" but there was no answer.

1:02 am

Sherlock couldn't sleep. His brother was right after all. Why didn't he just share a bed with his lover? Every other couple seemed to do so, even Mycroft and his boyfriend did. All at once, it seemed a perfectly right thing to be. So Sherlock plucked up his courage and went over. The way over to the next room, suddenly seemed to expand into miles. When he tried the door, it luckily was unlocked.

John unexpectedly felt a comfortable warmth, he had wished for all the time. In his doze, he realised that there was someone else. It felt good and right, to share the blanket with this warm, cosy object, snuggling up behind him, and just let it happen.

The next morning, John was woken by a faint bell, and then a deep voice.

"Wake up, John. Breakfast is ready."

Ten minutes later, he was dressed and ready. Sherlock lead him to the gigantic dining-room.

"Good morning, Mycroft!...and...Greg?"  
John's confusion was beyond any measurement, when he saw the DI sitting at the oaken table, having breakfast together with Mycroft Holmes, and, if he wasn't completely mistaken, having put a hand on his lap. His expression was self-explanatory.

"John, this is my brother's fiancée. I think you know him."

It took him a while to get back his words.

"Er...yes. I'm sorry. I just didn't expect you to be his..."

Mycroft gave him a broad smile. "Fiancée, is a bit too much. Partner, is a more adequate term."

"I gather, you two are also done with friendship, right?", Lestrade asked with a slightly dull smirk. John didn't know what to say. He didn't want them to know just yet, but it seemed like they did anyway. Sherlock continued the dialogue.

"We are a couple now, yes."

John took Sherlock's, pulled him out of the room, and hugged and kissed him.

"Mmmh. What was that for?"

"Because we're a couple.", said John with a smirk and returned into the dining-room, leaving a smiling but a bit baffled Sherlock behind.


	15. December 15th

Dec 15th, 5:07 pm, Holmes Hall/ Yorkshire

"Didn't you say something about a Christmas-dinner?"

Sherlock was just rooting around in, what seemed to be his own, former library. "I did."

"I believe it's a very formal thing...?"

"Depends on what you're used to. I don't think it's that formal, but I think you might."

"I just asked because of...well...what I wonder what I should put on. There's nothing nearly acceptable."

Only Sherlock's head and right arm appeared in the doorframe. "You could still put on this."

He pointed towards the closet. John made a face.

"Well, go and open it. There are no body parts in it. Mom wouldn't allow; never has."

Still hesitating, John opened the closet, and found a fitted pinstripe suit. But it wasn't Sherlock's old suite (which would be the most logical assumption). It was a tuxedo, fitted for John. There even was a monogram embroidered on the inside, saying JHW.

"Sherlock...!" no reply. So John put it on. When he was done and turned around, there was his friend, looking at him; giving John a fright.

"What the...where did you come from?! I thought you were gone!"

The other one just grinned. "You look splendid." When he looked at Sherlock, John thought he was joking, for he had never seen someone look so smart. Not even James Bond (and John loved the Bond movies).

"You're kidding me."

"Why should I?"

"Well...because...just...look at you! You look better than any Bond ever could!"

"Who's Bond?"

"Never mind. Shall we?"

It was about quarter to six pm, when they arrived down in the hall. Music came from the drawing room. Chatter was to be heard. Greg Lestrade smiled happily; Mycroft put his arm around the smaller man's shoulders. John compared their relationships. Mycroft might be able to make expensive presents, but he could never give this feeling of being loved and important; he would never take him up to the Tower Bridge or try to bake cookies for him, even if he had no clue. And if he did, Mycroft seemed to make it all feel so very normal. He probably made damn good cookies after all. The aperitif was served only shortly before dinner.

"Aren't your parents also coming?" asked John, when they went over to the dining room.

"Our father has died years ago, and my mother loves dramatic appearances. Just try not to mind, and get over and done with."

And then, with a delay of ten minutes, a noble old lady appeared. Mycroft stood up and welcomed her.

"Good evening!" her way of talking was very upper-class; her whole appearance was very stiff; at first.

"It's good to see you again, my boys! ...aaand...Gregory, right? Forgive me, I'm really bad at names."

"Yes, ma'am. I'm DI Gregory Lestrade." He bowed.

"Oh get up. I'm not Her Majesty."

"And Sherlock! How are you? Why do you never call? Your brother always tells me about you, but-"

"Merry Christmas Mother." Interrupted Sherlock. Apparently he had learned over the years that there was no use explaining to her.

"And this must be your colleague." She was addressing John now. "I'm sorry, I haven't been told your name yet." John wasn't sure if to bent, or kiss her hand or just not to do anything, so royal, but yet familial was her nature. His eyes met Sherlock's, and were calling for advice. Sherlock just shrugged.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. My name is Dr. John Hamish Watson."

"Pleased to meet you, Dr. Watson." The first course was served. The whole party sat down and began light conversation. As soon as the first course was done, Sherlock stood up.

"Actually, Mother. John isn't my colleague. He is my lover."

All eyes were fixed on Sherlock Holmes. Even those who already knew stared at him; even John.


	16. December 16th

Dec 16th

John had felt his cheeks blushing, and it returned every time, when he remembered the previous night. Frankly, he'd never believed, that Sherlock was capable of standing up in front of his Lestrade, his brother and worse, his own mother, and say out loud, that he had a) an emotional relationship and b) with another man.

Dec 15th (retrospection)

Lady Holmes had risen from her seat, just to shout wild abuse at her younger son, and then faint. Mycroft had somehow managed to stop her fall, and together with Greg, carry her to her bedroom.

"Shouldn't I have a look at her?" John had felt like he should do something.

"No, just leave her for a couple of hours. That happens more often than you would think." Answered Mycroft as he returned. "But the earliest we will see her again is tomorrow morning. So let's enjoy the rest of the evening. Oh, and Sherlock, I need to have a word with you. Now. In the library."

Sherlock gave John an apologetic shrug. His eyes filled with fear, when he followed Mycroft. Ready for any kind of verbal punishment from his brother, Sherlock closed his eyes. He was confused to the outset when Mycroft began, "I'm proud of you."

"Pardon me. What?"

"You heard me perfectly, Sherlock. Instead of starting a row, or telling her not at all, you waited for this very moment, a dinner where everyone is in the room, is the best thing to do. Well done, brother." With these words, he turned on the heel and went back to the where the others were waiting for him. After two minutes or so of recovery, Sherlock also came back.

"What has happened?" John whispered excitedly.

"I've just received my Christmas present."

Dec 16th (present day)

Everyone was gathered at the table for breakfast when the butler entered.

"Milady wishes to you see you now, Masters Holmes." The brothers looked puzzled at each other. Finally they got up and went to their mother. She was still lying in bed. Mycroft felt like he was ordered to the principle.

"Yes, mom?"

The old woman took a deep breath. "I wanted to tell you, that I am awfully sorry. I've changed my mind, you see? And you both seem to be so very happy, that I should have seen it right from the start. Mycroft, Sherlock, you both have my blessings. May you stay happy, whoever with."

Simultaneously, they said "Thank you mother."


	17. December 17th

Dec 17th , 10:00 am

The farewell had been rather simple. A few words and some polite smiles before the taxi to the train station arrived. One and a half hour later, the train departed. John put away his coat and looked at Sherlock. "Don't you want to know what I think about your old house and your family and so on?"

"Should I want to?"

"Usually people do, when having someone newly introduced to them, yes."

"Well, what do you think, then?"

"I knew Mycroft before...so, I think I don't have to comment on him. What concerns your mother, she actually struck me as a quite sociable person."

"There I have to correct you. She isn't, and she never was. It's even become worse since our father died, several years ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"No."

John was concerned. Something was bothering Sherlock, but like so often he couldn't possibly figure out what it was. Still, he didn't want to give up, and just tried to ask. Sometimes he did talk to him after all. Now his eyes looked anywhere, just not at John.

"What is it? There's something on your mind"

He sighed and considered what to say. "Mycroft and Les...Gregory. They are happy together; they are made for each other. And then I look at us, and I'm worried, that you aren't. I try to do my best, you know? But I somehow never was good with these things; relationships and social competences."

John shook his head. "You think I'm not happy with you? Oh, Sherlock! That's utter nonsense! Now listen to me. The reason because I love you is, because you are who you are. With all your flaws and perfections. I love your massive intellect as well as your arrogance, even if I'm quite pissed off with it sometimes. Please keep that in mind."

Now it once was Sherlock, to be dumbstruck. He had never realised that peopled loved the other one's imperfections. That didn't make any sense; it was illogical to the outmost and yet he was relieved. There was one problem left, though; he didn't know what to say.

"erm...thank you. And...um...I love you too, John. I'm...I'm quite glad, I've found you."

John grinned, and asked himself, if this already was his Christmas present, because he couldn't imagine getting anything more valuable from Sherlock Holmes, than a simple "I love you." But unsure as he was he replied, "You know, we should invite Mike Stamford for dinner some time. After all, he was the one introducing us."

After a short while of nothing, both of them burst out in laughter.


	18. December 18th

Dec 18th, early evening, London

* * *

A cold wind was blowing. Sharp like knives and icy like the breath of some sadistic ice-giant. John just entered Leicester Square, where a Victorian-era-like dressed group of women had formed to sing old Christmas carols. He had gone for a walk, because Sherlock was grumpy and therefore extremely rude. Now some relaxing music and a glass of mulled wine was exactly what he needed.

The choir had just finished "What child is this", when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

"They do quite a good job, even thought there are way better singers." Of course it was Sherlock.

"What are you doing here? I thought I made it quite clear, that I don't want to see you now!"

"I came to say sorry, John. Don't you want to come home?"

"Why? I'm still angry with you?"

"First: no. You aren't. Otherwise, you would turn around to face me. Now you turn your back to me, so you don't have to look into my face or eyes. And secondly: There'll be hot chocolate and a fire in the chimney."

"If you invite me on some roasted chestnuts, I'm in."

The choir started to sing "God rest ye merry gentlemen". It was John's favourite song.

"I want to hear this! Then we can go."

"Fine." Said Sherlock, and wrapped John in the warmth of his arms.

Half an hour later, both of them were back in 221b.

"T be honest, I haste this whole Christmas thing. Causes nothing but trouble."

"You don't like it? How can anyone not like Christmas?"

"It's boring. Utter nonsense. Humbug."

John wasn't sure if his imagination now played tricks on him, if his friend had really just referred to Christmas as "humbug".

"What did you say? Are you being serious?"

"I think you know me well enough to-"

"Yes, I do. But did you honestly just say "humbug"?"

"Mmmh. ?"

"No, Mr. Scrooge."

Sherlock looked quite confused. He obviously didn't know what was going on.

"Am I right if I say, that you don't know who Ebenezer Scrooge is?"

"No. Should I?"

"Charles Dickens? "A Christmas Carol?""

"Probably I've heard of it. Must have deleted it."

"You should know it. If you don't learn from it, you will at least like the story."

"How about, you tell me, and fill my blanks?"

"Well than, sit down, and listen."

Sherlock pushed the armchairs aside, and sat down on the floor. John leaned against him, and started his tale.

"It starts with a death, as far as I can remember. This guy's name is Jacob Marley. He was a ghastly old fellow, and his only friend was Ebenezer Scrooge..." at some point Sherlock lay his head on John's lap. The fire burnt down, as the story continued.

"...and when still nothing happened, Scrooge laughed and shouted "humbug!", once more. But suddenly-" It was now, that John noticed the calm breath of his boyfriend, and realised, that he had fallen asleep, even before the Ghost of Christmas Past. So the storytelling would have to continue the next day. Chuffed and happy, with his new found tale-teller ability, he also curled up on the floor and eventually fell asleep.


	19. December 19th

Dec 19th

* * *

The door flung open, and Sherlock stepped in. He had a distinct smell of alcohol on him, in fact, he was soaking wet. Vodka or something was dripping down his hair, and from the end of his coat. He didn't appear to even bother that his whole body was shaking. John, who was just bending over a brown box, gave him a surprised look.

"What the hell have you been doing all day?"

"A case. It was great!"

"Good. Very good. So you will go and have a shower, and then help me here, right?"

"Nah. Looks boring."

"Well, I admit, it's not the most exciting thing to do, but it could be fun. Just like baking. Remember?"

"Of course!" he shouted as he appeared into the bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock returned.

"So, what is it that you cannot manage without my help?"

"I didn't say that. I just said...well, never mind." John opened the ominous brown box and took a green plastic-garland from it, decorated with faux-holly and faked winter-rose.

"A bit decoration might cheer the whole flat up. Don't you think?"

Sherlock wanted to decline, and say that it was boring, but then, he remembered what John had said, and the day, they had been baking together. Conclusion: John was right. I would most likely be fun to decorate the flat. Sherlock nodded resolutely. In the box, there were garlands, and ties, and holly and gold and snowmen, et cetera. The point is though, that John really was right; they had the most fun. Once John took a tie, and fixed it on Sherlock's collar. It was a hilarious picture, to see him with a bowtie, as red as the light of a laser-pointer. Another time, Sherlock put a glittery red festoon around John's shoulders. This and many more things to laugh about occurred in this half hour. When the box was finally empty and the flat was nicely decorated, they lay down on a carped by the fireside; still laughing happily. A few minutes passed. Sherlock started to stroke John's hair; when doing that, he became more and more clear about, how thankful he actually was, to have met this amazing man.


	20. December 20th

Dec 20th

John, Sherlock and Lestrade were standing around a corpse. The poor woman had been killed, and nobody knew why. There was a huge puddle of blood on the floor and a big wound on the chest of the victim. The reason why a consulting detective was required was because nobody knew how she had died. There was no weapon found, and the wound was clean; there was no bullet to be found. So how had she died then? The only facts, the police had discovered so far, were: the murderer must have been in a hurry, because of the pattern of some bloody footsteps, and that he was probably male and blonde. Nothing else.

Sherlock began to examine the body, while John wrote everything down. The detective knelt down. He inhaled deeply, looked at the wound, at the hands and at the feet of the body. He touched the hair and looked at her wallet. It took him exactly one and a half minute, and a short glance down the street, to know what the murder weapon was. He turned to Lestrade. "The murderer is the landlord and boyfriend."

The DI interrupted. "What, two murderers?"

"No! Are you once able to think! You don't even realise that Anderson and Donovan are making out behind the corner, in this very moment!"

Lestrade rolled his eyes. He had to have words with both of them, afterwards. "What do you mean, then?"

"The murderer is the owner of a former laundry, which she rented and transformed into a sweetshop. He is her boyfriend, but corrupted by money, or more, the lack of money, and probably wanted to throw her out of her shop. She refused, and he stabbed her; with a sugarcane from her own shop. What I gather from the evidences is, that he didn't mean to kill her. Go and arrest him. His address is on the pinkish card insider her wallet. It was easy. Good night, Gregory."

Sherlock walked away from the crime scene, past a wall, where Anderson and Donovan were still making out. Bold as he was, he started to hum as he walked by "On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, two turtledoves...", just so that they could hear it. They parted immediately and blushed. Sherlock giggled silently. Now John was catching up.

"Well, John. That's another proof, that Christmas is just a big show to amuse little children, and useless idiots. Hah!"

"Hold on! I like Christmas! And I thought you would like it too."

"Good, god, no. I always detested it. Like I said; just for complete dimwits."

John's feelings were seriously hurt. Yet, he didn't say anything. One reason was, because he thought, that Sherlock would change his mind, the other one was, because he loved him. So John just forgave. But maybe, he forgave once too often.


	21. December 21st

Dec 21st

John picked up the mail, and returned into the flat.

"...loads of Christmas ads, bills and...oh! A letter from Greg!"

"Why doesn't he send an e-mail...?"

"He invites us for the Christmas party at Scotland Yard. I think we should go."

Suddenly Sherlock was alarmed. "What? Why?"

"I don't know... because it's polite to answer an invitation, and it'll be fun!"

"Fun? What exactly can be amusing at standing around in an office, having awful music all around, getting drunk and having to have "polite" or "friendly" conversations with people I can't stand?!"

John was angry. "Fine! You don't have to come! But it would be kind of you! And you would do me a favour if you'd come. I don't want to go there alone."

There was a long pause before the answer. "Alright. I'll come with you."

At 6:33 pm, they made their way to the New Scotland Yard; a way, that both knew too well; just the context was usually another.

"It's going to be fun! You'll see!"

Sherlock's lips might have formed into a smile, but his eyes didn't join in. John realised that he had made a big mistake in taking his friend with him. He put a hand on Sherlock's cheek. "If you don't like it, I promise you, that I won't take you to a party ever again. Ok?"

He nodded. The two men got out of the taxi, and into the glass-building.

"Hello everyone! Thanks for the invitation." Everyone seemed to be glad to see John. The mood changed though, when Sherlock entered the room. Everybody looked at him, like he was poisonous. John started to talk to Lestrade. "Hey, Greg! I wanted to thank you personally for inviting us. Sherlock promised me, that he would behave. I honestly hope he will."

"He bloody well should. I've never invited him before, but since I'm engaged to his brother, he's family now. God help me." Lestrade winked.

"Oh, you're engaged? I thought, you only were his, um, you know, his boyfriend. Just like Sherlock and me."

"Shhht. Nobody knows yet." he started to whisper. "Mycroft proposed to me in August."

"Ah. Well, you have my blessings!" they kept talking a little, until they were interrupted by DI Dimmock, and an hour later, ended up dancing with Molly Hooper, which was strange because he hadn't been drinking. Another thirty minutes later he started to look out for Sherlock. Whole fifteen minutes after he first noticed that he wasn't there, he finally understood that he must have left the building. Hastily he went home.

And there he was. In the living room he played an unknown piece on his violin.

"When have you left?" Sherlock stopped his solo.

"About an hour and a half ago."

"Hold on. That means you've been there only..." John calculated the time. "...fifteen minutes or so."

"Exactly."

"Why have you left, without telling me?"

"You didn't miss me, did you."

"Of course I did!"

"No, you didn't, and no, I meant it differently. I wanted to say, that it was probably the best. For all of you. I would've spoiled the party."

"What makes you so sure about that?"

"Experience, John; and the fact that I dislike Christmas and parties."


	22. December 22nd

Dec 22nd

It was the evening of not a very pleasant day. Sherlock had become more and more grumpy. If that had just been all...

John had decided to just ignore his grouchy friend, and focus on what made him happy right now.

"Oh, can you believe it? Two days until Christmas! ... I say this even if I know you don't like it."

"Why bother me then? I want everyone to just shut up, and leave me alone with this stupid Christmas-stuff!"

This was the final straw. John could bear if someone didn't like Christmas, but he absolutely couldn't handle Sherlock's insults anymore.

"But why? What is possibly wrong with you, that you constantly have to offence it! I really love this time of year! And if I like it, you have to accept it!"

"Do you realise, that it's always you, who starts talking about Christmas? I only wanted to state my point of view."

"Well, if you hate Christmas that much, I'll spend is somewhere else."

Before Sherlock could even try to reply, John had got hold of his jacket and stormed out of the flat. Outside it had started to snow. Thick flakes were falling down from the sky, dancing a wonderful waltz. John didn't want to see it. Caught between joy, to be rid of Sherlock, anger and tears, he headed toward the next Underground station, where he would look for a train to a destination, yet unknown.

Sherlock's eyes were blank, looked into nowhere and still, saw everything. He would have liked to explain it all to John, he really did. But there were hardly any words that could describe the misery that came together with Christmas; the dreadful memories that bubbled up, every year, a few days before the holy night.

He was immediately back in the old Yorkshire-house. Christmas-eve. His parents had his brother and him sent down to the hall, where the big tree was standing. His father had been a very strict roman-catholic. His mother didn't care about religion, but also didn't dare to raise her voice against her husband, to avoid his anger and its violent consequences. That evening, Sherlock had refused to pray. He didn't see the sense behind it. His father started to shout at him, and began to destroy some of his presents in front of him. The little Sherlock went to his room, tears running down his cheeks. Only a short time later, Mycroft entered the room to comfort his little brother. It felt like the world was just them. Warm and secure.

It had been one of many Christmases before Mycroft had changed into the icy bastard he was now. Mycroft. If Sherlock wanted to get John back, he needed his brother's help.


	23. December 23rd

Dec 23rd, the day before Chirstmas

* * *

"Hello Mycroft." He was there suddenly. No movement, no sound. His brother had noticed him anyway.

"Good morning, Sherlock." He looked up. "You aren't here to visit me because it's Christmas, I assume."

"Heaven, no. But I must admit, that I have a present for you." Mycroft just raised a brow."

"I need your advice."

"Like in old days. Hear, hear."

"Don't. Just don't. I'm being serious. You're the older one, and have more experience on this matter."

"And that would be?"

"I...I've messed up with John, and I need your help to get him back." It was obviously very hard for Sherlock to confess.

"You find me surprised. But you sould've seen it coming."

"I'm serious, Mycroft! Stop it! Just say that you'll help me."

"Alright. You evidently really mean it. So, what have you done, that he isn't talking to you anymore. Anyway, I thought, you had that before...?"

"That's not the problem. He's gone. He left, because I repeatedly said, that I didn't like Christmas. And I failed to explain why."

"That should be easy. When he returns, what should happen presumably today, catch up. Tell him what our Christmases were like. He's sentimental, so he will understand. You also should surprise him in a positive way, and try not to make something down that he likes soon again."

Now Sherlock felt really bad. Why had he let John go in the first place?

"Can you guarantee, that he'll be back today?"

"Of course not! But I've experienced similar situations myself."

Sherlock nodded sadly and made his way towards the door. Suddenly he stopped. "Thank you, brother. And...I'm glad you finally asked Greg. You make a nice couple." Then he was gone, without saying anything.


	24. December 24th: Christmas Eve

Dec 24th, Christmas-day, early afternoon

* * *

The last two nights had been horrible. John had tried to sleep at Shara's place, but she had another one (who luckily hadn't been there at the moment), he had tried to ring Harry, Stamford, and some other friends. Nobody had either time or space for him. Just when he had thought about checking into a hotel, he had remembered Clara, his sister's ex. She'd always been a kind person, and nice to him; so he tried her number. When she answered the phone, John told her his story, she accepted to take him until Christmas Eve. Meanwhile, he had had time enough to think about the last conversation with Sherlock. It had occurred to him earlier that he should have let him explain. On the other hand, John could very vividly picture the explanations. "Because it's dull. Boring. Only for idiots."

But now he wasn't so sure anymore. Sherlock had made some astonishing changes since the month's beginning. He had asked him for a date, he had surprised him with the view over London, he had even confessed his love more than once. It was now clear to him, that he had to come back to 221b Bakerstreet. He owed his boyfriend an apology.

Apart from numerous phone calls, Sherlock had started to look for John on places where he was likely to be, but there was no trace of his friend. His frustration grew with every hour he spent outside. The sun was already about to set, when he stopped in front of a certain shop, and finally knew what was to do.

John wanted to take a cab, but there wasn't a single one even near the block. He tried the Tube next, but it was closed down, because of a terrorist-threat. What should he do now? Well, he had to walk all the way to the next working Tube-station, or cab. When he finally found a cab, it was beginning to get dark.

Sherlock had only hope left; no evidences, no calculations, nothing to predict. The only person, who had ever managed to cause this sort of feeling in him, was Irene Adler. He stared at the fire in the chimney. It was completely dark outside. Sherlock was about to give up, and felt the first tear dripping down his nose, when he suddenly heard the door open. He had never been so ready for anything, as he was for what was to come.

His feet were heavy, his whole body was tired. He hoped that Sherlock wouldn't abandon him again. He honestly didn't know what he would do, if he was hurt again. It was just trust that moved him; trust in the good and human side of Sherlock Holmes. When he opened the door, he was surprised. There was a small Christmas-tree standing on the table. It was decorated with beautiful balls and a garland. There was a fire burning in the fireplace. Everything was warm and comfy. Sherlock stood there; waiting. John couldn't hold it back. He had to hug him. To his surprise, Sherlock returned the hug.

"I'm so glad, I'm back! I'm so sorry, Sherlock! I really should've listened to you!" he looked him in the eyes. "Would you forgive me?"

"It's not your fault. I failed to say what my problem was all day long. I'm the one who has to ask for forgiveness. So, would you forgive me?"

"Alright. We both forgive. Have you...ummm..." he pointed at the tree.

"Yes. It's a surprise. And I've got another one for you." What he now did stunned John the most; he would never forget this Christmas in his entire life. Sherlock gently clutched John's wrist, fetched a little, black box from his pocket and said, "John Watson, do you want to marry me?" Then he opened the box, and showed John a decent, silver necklace with a ring on it. His eyes were fixed on the soldier, who was almost fainting.

"Yes, Sherlock. Yes, I really do."

"In case you don't want to war it on your finger. Merry Christmas John." He applied the necklace to John.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock."


End file.
